


Shut Up And Kiss Me

by LeannieBananie



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Consensual Sex, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, Infidelity, Love, Oral Sex, Reunion Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 04:51:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10529313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeannieBananie/pseuds/LeannieBananie
Summary: "“Visit me tonight?” Before Constance can even consider the repercussions she’s eagerly nodding yes, biting her lip between her teeth in an attempt to stem the giddy laughter that threatens to burst free. She knows D’Artagnan can see it in her eyes, because he laughs softly, teasing her with eyes full of mischief. And love. Always love."*NSFW Chapter 2*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1 contains mild spoilers for Season 2 Episode 8 The Prodigal Father
> 
> Kudos and comments, leave 'em if you liked it. It helps keeps us writers motivated! Also, holler if you see any mistakes.
> 
> Written because I binge watched all three seasons in a weekend (judge me) and I need more D'Artagnan/Constance.

“Constance. Shut up and kiss me.” She flounders for a moment, heating rising to her cheeks before she steps forward, fighting back a joyous, embarrassed grin. She can see it answered on his own face, his brown eyes shining with relief and happiness and the one corner of his mouth kicking up in the way that makes her want to kiss him. So, she does. 

Her hands find their way to his neck and his clutch at her waist and it feels like her heart is about to pound out of her chest she’s so happy. She should feel embarrassed, ashamed, but all she feels is an illicit little thrill shoot down her back when he squeezes her a little bit tighter and whispers in her ear, 

“Visit me tonight?” Before Constance can even consider the repercussions she’s eagerly nodding yes, biting her lip between her teeth in an attempt to stem the giddy laughter that threatens to burst free. She knows D’Artagnan can see it in her eyes, because he laughs softly, teasing her with eyes full of mischief. And love. Always love. Even when they hadn’t been on friendly terms he had loved her. 

Suddenly those dark eyes turn heated again and mindless of their audience he dipped his head to kiss her. She readily meets him, lips and tongues sliding together in a practiced move, despite the long weeks between kisses. One big warm hand slides upwards, fingers tangling in her loose hair and the other travels downward, electrifying her skin through her corset, making her press into him before settling low on her hip. His firm grasp anchors her to him, not that she was trying to escape. 

Her own hands are too busy, one clenched on the lapel of his jacket, fingers brushing against the hot, bare skin of his chest, while the other plays with the silky ends of his too long hair. She is so focused in her pursuit of pleasure, of the skillful slant of his lips on hers and the way she can feel the heat of his body through her many, many layers that she fails to hear the good-natured whistling and suggestive shouts coming from behind her. Porthos and Aramis being the loudest of all of course. 

Growling under his breath D’Artagnan pulls back, but still keeps her close, his hands heavy around her waist. Constance trembles at the frustrated noise, proof of his passion and it is reassuring to know that he wants her just as much as she wants him. 

“I must go.” Her voice is shaky and it makes him grin as he stares at her, hunger evident in the tension in his face. He reaches out to rub his thumb along the blush riding her cheekbones, another groan slipping through his lips when she tilts her head into his caress. “The Queen is waiting for me.” He gives her one last squeeze before releasing her and she feels it shoot all through her body, anticipation making her shiver again. 

“Go then. I’ll wait for you outside the east gate at midnight.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She met him willingly, a hand sliding up to rub along the scruff on his cheeks. She would bear the marks of it tomorrow, she thought with a blush, knowing she should mind, knowing that people would talk, but it felt like a form of protection. She was _his_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tense got the better of me here, so forgive any mistakes.
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated, so leave 'em if you liked it.

The halls were mostly deserted as she slipped out of her quarters in the palace. A pair of patrolling guards gave her an odd look, but she twitched her hood to better hide her face and kept moving, silent except for the swish of silk skirts and the soft scuff of her slippers on the polished tile as she hurried down the corridor. She wasn’t doing anything for them to stop her, but she was a mostly respectable widowed woman sneaking off to meet her lover and her old qualms unnerved her a little, making her hands trembling in the folds of her cloak. 

Keeping to the shadows she darted through the courtyard and breathlessly asked the guards to open the gate, which they did without comment, faces bored. She paused once gate slammed shut behind her, nerves suddenly fluttering through her as she stared out into the dark streets, eyes searching for any sign of D’Artagnan. She released a breath she didn’t know she was holding when he stepped out into the light and she immediately moved towards him, throwing herself into his arms for a brief hug. 

“Come on.” He urged, fingers weaving through her own to guide her through the nighttime streets of Paris. 

He rushed them, long legs making her jog behind him, but she didn’t mind, not when her own blood was pounding in her ears, urging her to go _faster, faster, faster_. The Musketeer cadet at the gate gawked at the sight of them, but one swift glare from D’Artagnan made him burst into action, swinging the gate to the garrison open with a respectful nod. 

She blushed as they swept past, but she did appreciate the discretion from both of them. She wasn’t the first woman to slip into the garrison in the middle of the night, but she wasn’t a working girl and her reputation was a tenuous thing at times, strained by her relationship with D’Artagnan and her connection to the Musketeers. Plenty in the palace viewed her with quiet distaste, the Queen’s favor stopping voices, but not looks. Constance was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she didn’t notice that D’Artagnan had stopped until she plowed into him with a muffled grunt. He turned and grinned at her, white teeth gleaming in the darkness before he fumbled with the lock on his door. When it swung open he propelled her through, both of them freezing when it closed behind him. 

They were alone, or as alone as they could be surrounded by snoring Musketeers and Constance was painfully, nervously aware of that. It felt so different this time, more important somehow, now that she had finally set aside the last of her doubts and wholly given herself over to their love. Restlessly she moved into the room, briefly taking in its Spartan appearance before she spun to face him. 

He leaned against the door, palms flat against it, half his face cast into darkness, but she knew he was watching her. She could feel the weight of his gaze, fierce and dangerous and needy, like a physical caress on her skin and it made her feel brave, sensual even, which was something she had felt precious few times in her life, all of them because of D’Artagnan. 

Emboldened she reached up and untied the knot holding her cloak shut, letting it fall to the floor with a soft _whoosh_. She had worn one of her simplest gowns on purpose tonight, it was dark and serviceable, but most importantly, it fastened in the front. This hadn’t been her original intention, but her fingers seemed to have a will of their own, slowly pulling out the laces, tracing over the fullness of her breasts, teasing both of them with her languorous pace. Once it was unlaced it hung loose against her, held up by flimsy straps that barely clung to her shoulders. Constance glanced down at herself, at her corset visible behind the deep V of her gown, her breasts only just covered, quivering with each shaky breath she drew. Bringing her head back up she sought D’Artagnan’s gaze and when their eyes met she gasped. 

He was rigid against the door, straining forwards, every muscular line in his body pulled taut with the desire that raged in his eyes. _Oh_ , she thought, her pulse racing so quickly she felt dizzy, but powerful too. The way he looked at her was primal, like she was the very air he needed to breath, it was addictive and she reveled in it. 

“Constance, please.” It was a guttural plea, his warm voice hoarse with need. Taking a deep breath, she tilted her chin up and something instinctive made her position herself so that her breasts thrust forward, hips angled just so, legs slightly parted. 

“Please what? Please stop?” Whatever he was going to say died in a rough groan, eyes locked on her hand as she raised it to delicately trail it down her side before resting it on her hip. A gentle tug and slight shimmy freed her from her dress, silk pooling about her feet, leaving her standing in her slippers, stockings, corset and diaphanous chemise. 

D’Artagnan’s reaction was instantaneous, he surged forward, gripping her hips tightly and as his mouth crashed in to hers. She moaned against his lips as they kissed, tongues tangling and her hands winding their way into his hair. His teeth found her neck, sucking at the skin there before his tongue laved the silky skin, soothing and enflaming her senses with his touch. It was chaotic and overwhelming and Constance could feel herself being swept away by his persuasive caresses and the way his mouth sought to devour her. 

“No, wait!” Gathering every last bit of her will power she placed her hands on his chest and pushed, spinning them so that when he stumbled back his knees struck the bed and he fell into it, sprawling across the messed surface. He looked confused and aroused, his hair tousled and eyes a little wild. “I wasn’t done.” 

D’Artagnan propped himself up on his elbows, a slow, eager grin covering his face. Constance bit her lip and kicked free of her fallen garments, stepping between his knees, her sheer chemise brushing against his thighs, the soft fluttering garment tempting him. 

“Why Madame,” He hummed, reached out to toy with the gauzy material. Swiftly she batted his hand away, placing her hand at his shoulder and gently shoving him back to the bed. 

“Hands to yourself.” She commanded, resting one knee between his legs, leaning forward to nudge against his hard length. His hips bucked up boldly in response, seeking more of the friction she teased him with. Constance merely laughed, low and husky as her fingers reached behind her to loosen her stays, the move arching her back and pushing her breasts forward. She laughed again when his eyes dropped to the tantalizing mounds of pale, curved flesh with a throaty murmur. 

His gaze caught again on her fingers as they returned to the front to unclasp her corset and as she unhurriedly released each hook it drove their little game to new heights, pushing their desire into new volatile territory. By the time she reached the bottom her hands trembled and she panted, breasts heaving, rubbing the rough material of her corset again her already sensitive flesh. She squirmed at the stab of pleasure, a gasp escaping her lips at the delicious rush, all of it centering achy and slick between her thighs. Unbidden she reached up to cup herself, corset falling away heedlessly, the gossamer fabric of her chemise revealing far more than it hid. 

Constance was dimly aware of D’Artagnan cursing under his breath, but she ignored it, closing her eyes and tipping her head back as she carefully caressed herself. This wasn’t the first time she had touched herself this way, but it had always been rushed and hidden. This was wicked and scandalous with D’Artagnan’s eyes scorching her skin and lighting fire to her nerves. She could feel him practically vibrating beneath her, tense, but surprisingly submissive, yielding willingly to her newfound seductive prowess. It was a heady sort of control, one born of trust and love and it made her burn, goosebumps coursing over her skin as she slid her thumbs over her nipples, her knees nearly buckling at the unexpected ripple of want. 

“ _Please_. Constance.” His strained voice made her open her eyes and she smiled slowly, halting her torturous movements to step away from him. He made a disgruntled noise and went to rise, but she held out a hand imperiously, much like a queen would. 

“Not yet.” She commanded, aware of how her legs trembled and how her intimate flesh throbbed, desperate to be touched. _Soon._ Quickly she shed the rest of her garments, not pausing to torment, just whipping the fine garment over her head, leaving her completely bare. 

Constance heard all the breath leave D’Artagnan in a strangled moan, saw how he jerked against the mattress like he wanted to grab her and pull her to him. And oh, she wanted that too, but in the back of her mind she was reminded of stories she had heard, snippets of gossip and bits of innuendo that were mostly appropriate for a Madame. At the time, she had blushed, never imagining such a thing was possible, as her marriage to Bonacieux was very tame compared to her affair with D’Artagnan. 

Now though, she stared down at him and swallowed thickly as need wash over her. Wondering how he would taste in her mouth. He had done that to her once, on her kitchen table no less, in a patch of sunlight on a warm afternoon he had buried his dark head between her thighs and licked and sucked at her until she had come apart on the worn wood surface. She still dreamt about that day. 

Under her heated gaze, D’Artagnan had stretched back on the bed, lacing his fingers behind his head, putting every ridged muscle on display. Was she bold enough to suggest _that_? She bit her lip nervously and continued to stare at him until he nodded encouragingly, 

“Go ahead. Do what you want.” 

She could count the number of times they had been together on one hand, all of them frantic and rushed, leaving them half-dressed and aware of every footstep outside of her old house. This was an invitation Constance couldn’t pass up. 

The mattress dipped under her weight as she climbed over his knees, settling herself carefully over his hardness, deliberately pressing against it with a wicked grin. She was unprepared for how he tilted his hips up and ground against her, the ridge of him striking at the bundle of nerves between her legs in a way that made her cry out. 

“D’Artagnan!” She didn’t know if it was a reprimand or a plea for more and apparently, he didn’t either, because he brought his hands to her waist and pulled her more firmly against him. It caught her off guard, the sudden onslaught of molten heat and want that accompanied their movements. The lust that rampaged through her stole her breath and pulled everything in her into a sharp, sweet, point. 

They moved naturally against each other, hips writhing, taking and giving pleasure in equal measure, cool leather meeting swollen, delicate flesh. She clutched at his clothed shoulders and arched against him, shamelessly chasing the flickering spark that swelled inside her, building and curling, before pooling low between her thighs. 

She was embarrassingly slick and she could feel all her resistance melting away when he brought a hand up to capture one breast against his palm. It was a mesmerizing combination of hot skin against silken flesh as he kneaded the soft mound almost reverently, his calloused thumb creating a delicious resistance across her nipple. His face was stark with lust as he moved with her, voice and hands pushing her higher, urging her towards her peak. 

“But I wanted to-” Constance whined, fighting the persistent hunger growing in her, demanding she let go, give up her control. Everything in her felt pulled tight, near the breaking point, but she didn’t feel ready, not until D’Artagnan’s smooth voice washed over her, soothing her even as he added to her frantic passion. 

“Next time. Constance, next time you can do whatever you want. I swear it Constance. Please, just let go. Please Constance.” 

She doesn’t know whether it’s his fervent plea, the insistent press of his length against her core, his hands stroking her sensitive flesh, or all three, but her body’s reaction is immediate. She cried out and her hips shifted wildly against him as her climax slammed through her, every muscle going tight and her toes curling, the unexpected ferocity of it stealing her breath. She collapsed against him as it gradually receded, leaving her boneless and satiated and slightly disgruntled. 

“I had plans for you.” Constance grumbled against his chest, smiling when she feels the rumble of his laugh, the huff of it moving her hair. His warm hands smoothed up and down her back, making her skin prickle in awareness. 

“I’m sorry.” Tilting her head up she narrowed her eyes at him and he tried to look contrite, but he grinned instead, his lips searching for hers. She met him willingly, a hand sliding up to rub along the scruff on his cheeks. She would bear the marks of it tomorrow, she thought with a blush, knowing she should mind, knowing that people would talk, but it felt like a form of protection. She was _his_.

That thought made heat pulse at her core, startling her and making her groan against his mouth. She leaned closer and urged them on, the slow, steady meeting of their mouths growing messy; tongues and lips fighting for sweet control, hands grasping and petting. Still straddling his hips, she settled back against him, hands yanking rough at the ties and buttons of his shirt, fingers prying at the buckles of his sword. 

“Let me.” He hurriedly brushed her aside, his own hands making quick work of the last of his gear as she roughly jerked his shirt free from his trousers, hand closing around his hot length. He immediately thrusted into her palm, body going rigid and hands fumbling as he tried to pull his clothes off while she tortured him with her explorations his flesh. 

Shirt and jacket off he flopped back against the bed, throwing one arm over his face as he rocked into her hand. He was a captivating sight and Constance couldn’t take her eyes off of him as she continued to work him underneath his trousers. His body was drawn tight across the bed, stomach clenched and chest covered in a light sheen of sweat, even though the room was on the cool side. His voice was choked as he continually murmured her name into his arm, like a prayer, blasphemous though it was. 

“Constance, Constance.” And if her name was his invocation, then he was her altar, sprawled across the bed waiting for her to worship at his feet. The image of her between his thighs, his hands in her hair made her squirm with arousal, her entire body giving a hot throb. 

“Does this count as next time?” Before he could answer she slipped off his lap and began tugging down his trousers, wrestling them off with his boots. D’Artagnan sat up and watched her warily, desire and need warring with his confusion. When she knelt gracefully between his spread knees she was delighted to note a dark blush cover his cheeks and he looked embarrassed, a state she wasn’t used to seeing him in. 

“Wait- I’ve never-” He cleared his throat before continuing, “I mean, no one has ever done that to me.” Her grin was a little feral when she answered, 

“Good. I’ve never either.” She finished lamely, her own blush intensifying. “But I want to.” D’Artagnan nodded shortly and fell back, but he kept his eyes on her like he was afraid to blink. Tentatively she took him in hand again, loving the feel of him against her palm, surprisingly soft, but hard and hot. Carefully she leaned forward to kiss the tip, pulling back when he hissed and flinched beneath her. “Did I-?”

“No, please don’t stop.” Something in his voice made her think it had been a good noise, so she did it again, flicking her tongue along the silky skin there, teasing a harsh moan from him. Encouraged, Constance took him into her mouth, sliding his length along her tongue, minding her teeth and sucking gently. Her uncertain efforts were reward when his back bowed off the bed and he swore, his hips bucking up, forcing more of him into her mouth. She struggled for a moment to accommodate him, then slowly began to bob her head over him, much like her hand would. Except that it was her mouth and she felt clumsy and it was more difficult and tiring than she imagined, but she liked it, feeling him thrust into her mouth, his hands weaving into her hair to guide her along his length. She liked reducing D’Artagnan to a moaning, thrashing mess and it sparked an answering need in her, made her clench her thighs together in an attempt to alleviate the ache there, desperate for some sort of friction. 

Suddenly his hands were cupping her face, pulling her away, every line in his face frantic and needy as he pulled her onto the bed. 

“I need you Constance.” He pushed her thighs apart, hands rough as he stroked her intimately, thumb circling her center of pleasure, insistently working the little bud until she twisted underneath him, hips shifting restlessly, seeking more, needing it. She cried out when he slid one finger into her core, moaning at the slick heat he found there. Her moan turned into a frustrated whine when he pulled back, only to arch up against him when his length teased along her flesh, before sinking into her with a slow, steady thrust. 

They froze again, her nails digging into his muscular shoulders, his hands gripping her hips so tight she knew there would be bruises. D’Artagnan hovered over her, tossing his hair aside to capture her lips. She met his passion with her own, holding him close, raking her nails down his back, urging him on, sobbing when his hips began to move, driving into her with a deliberate rhythm. Their bodies moved together, both of them chasing the pleasure that coiled through their veins, drawing them closer to the sweet, sharp edge of release. 

Constance could feel her own desire growing again, wild and a little frantic, needing something more than the delicious drag of his length. She slipped her hand between their bodies, fingers seeking the nub between her legs, body straining against his larger one when she found it. It took very little to send her flying, the chaotic whirl of sensations, the overwhelming flood of need and arousal, D’Artagnan all melding together to make her body tighten once more. She must have screamed, because he caught her mouth with his, muffling the sharp noise as she thrashed beneath him pleasure bordering on pain as it coursed through her. 

The clenching of her body drove D’Artagnan to his release, he drove into her once more, his own body solid and heavy against her as he groaned long and low into her neck. She wrapped her arms around his slick back, soothing him as he slumped against her, nuzzling her hair as he gradually relaxed. 

He tilted to the side, sliding off her, but staying close, drawing the tangled blankets up over their rapidly cooling bodies. Constance rolled to her side, pressing her back to his chest, smiling when he pulled her even closer, pressing a soft kiss against the back of her neck. 

“I can’t stay all night.” She mumbled sleepily, loving how his long fingers stroked the soft skin of her stomach. He nodded against her back, his voice equally drowsy. 

“I’ll wake you.” 

. 

. 

The first thing she noticed was sunlight streaming across her face. Had she forgotten to draw the blinds last night? But then she noticed the poorly stuffed mattress and the distinctly male body behind her, his hardness pressing against her rear. The second thing she noticed was the door opening and before she could react, Aramis poked his head through, 

“Get up D’Artagnan! We have an- oh. Well. I’ll just leave.” Constance let out an embarrassed shriek and leapt out of bed, taking the blankets with her. D’Artagnan grumbled, rolling onto his back and tossing an arm over his face, much like had been last night. She fought the flaming blush on her face as she threw on her clothes, trying to ignore the lingering soreness between her thighs as she pulled on her slippers. 

“D’Artagnan, get up!” She hissed, swatting at his leg while trying to stay out of range. Still, she was unprepared for his hand latching onto her skirts and tugging her forward across his chest. He locked his arms around her waist and buried his face into her chest, nipping at her breasts. “Stop it!” Constance smacked him about the head, wrestling with him until she was giggling and they were both breathless, him successfully having pinned her to the bed, her skirts rucked up around her thighs. 

“I have to go and you have Musketeer business.” She said primly, hopelessly in love with the big fool, who grinned down at her wolfishly. 

“You would leave me in this state?” He asked, arching an eyebrow and tilting his chin downwards, while pressing his arousal against her. 

“Yes I would!” She said playfully, managing to twist herself free. He let her go and dropped to the bed, groaning. “Now get up and kiss me before I go.” She gathered her cloak and stepped to the door, letting him draw her into the circle of his arms one last time. Their kiss was mostly chaste, the barest slide of tongue and she nipped his lower lip before opening the door and stepping away. He stood in the door frame in his trousers and boots, chest bare for all in the lower courtyard to see and she blushed furiously, knowing what they must think of her, but she couldn’t deny D’Artagnan when he caught the back of her cloak and reeled her in. He pressed a final kiss to her lips and squeezed her hand warmly, eyes flashing with mischief again as he dropped into a courtly bow, placing a kiss to her palm. 

“Madame.” Constance responded in kind, curtseying low with a gracious nod of her head. 

“Monsieur D’Artagnan.” 

She paused at the foot of the stares, casting a glance back at him, knowing he was watching her leave. Porthos and Aramis could barely contain their grins as they nodded to her as she walked by, Athos merely inclining his head politely, hiding whatever he thought behind stoic eyes. It didn’t matter though, she thought, squaring her shoulders as she stepped out into the Parisian streets. She was in love and she was no longer willing to squander that most precious gift.


End file.
